


Close Enough to Touch

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Petrellicest, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter doesn't do well on his own after Nathan breaks it off with him. Nathan tries to correct the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Enough to Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for Five Acts, Round Five. Thanks to [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for looking it over!

The dirty gold light of dawn pierces through cheap curtains somewhere in Brooklyn to land across Peter Petrelli’s face. He cracks an eye open to find himself in an unfamiliar bed: the fourth in five days. The man snoring facedown beside him is dark haired and broad shouldered. A med student, Peter thinks, though he’s not certain. His head is still swimming with tequila.

Peter slides out of bed carefully and searches for his pants with one eye on his sleeping hook-up. When he’s got on enough clothes for decency’s sake, he tucks his shoes under his arm and slips out the door to finish dressing in the hallway. He feels a tiny prickle of guilt that the guy--Joel? Joey?--will wake up alone, but Peter’s fairly sure it’s better this way. The times he’s stayed and tried to explain-- _I just need to feel something.--You can hurt me if you want.--There’s someone I’m trying to forget._ \--have always gone badly.

He’s dressed and walking back toward the Lower East Side in the crisp October air before regret can weigh him down.

The phone’s ringing when he walks into his apartment, but Peter ignores it. He kicks off his shoes and drops onto the bed. The phone stops ringing as he crashes into sleep.

Peter dreams of flying. The city huddles beneath him, buildings like jagged teeth reaching up to snare his skin. The sky turns dark as clouds roll in from over the ocean: great towering clouds that flash with electricity. Peter must keep climbing higher; there’s somewhere he needs to be. The clouds overtake him, and he’s blinded by whipping rain. He can’t see which way to fly. He’s going to fall.

He wakes up with a shout, heart pounding and skin damp with sweat. The phone is ringing. He gropes for it blindly, finds the receiver, and brings it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Peter.”

The throbbing in his temples, the burnt-toast smell of his apartment, the hiss of traffic in the rain twelve stories down: it all disappears at the sound of that voice.

“Nathan.”

“What are you doing, Pete?”

“I’m at home. Why are you-- “

“No, what are you doing with your damn life?”

“I...” A flare of anger pierces the spell of Nathan’s voice. “It’s none of your business. Is that why you called?”

“Ma’s worried about you. She knows you haven’t been going to class. I can imagine what you’ve been up to instead.”

Shame wells up and replaces the anger. The throbbing in his temples is back. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Peter,” Nathan says sharply.

Peter can’t help but freeze.

“Lie down,” Nathan says.

“Nathan,” Peter whispers, because he thinks he shouldn’t yield so easily.

“Lie. Down.”

Peter sinks onto the bed.

“Good. Speaker phone.”

Peter presses the button and props the phone up on the bedside table. “Okay.”

“Put your hands at your sides. They’ll stay there until I tell you to move them. Understand?”

“Yes,” Peter says. His whole body feels tensed, as if for a blow or a kiss, and Nathan has barely said anything. “I wish you were here with me.”

“I can’t be. You know that. No more talking unless you’re answering a question. Do you understand?”

Peter nods, then quickly adds, “Yes.” The military has changed Nathan. Their games had never used to be so strict. But Peter will gladly accept this, too, since this is all that is on offer from his brother.

“Take off your shirt. It can go on the floor.”

Peter leans up enough to strip off his t-shirt and drop it on the floor. If Nathan had been in his room, he would have been neater. But Nathan _isn’t_ here. And that is the problem, after all.

“Any marks on your upper body?”

“What?”

“Marks. Did any of them leave marks? On your back, maybe. Your neck?”

Peter swallows hard. He hadn’t let anyone beat him, not really. The guy he’d been with on Tuesday had given him a thorough spanking, but Nathan hadn’t asked about that, yet.

“My wrists,” Peter says. Joel-Joey-Jason had tied his hands to the radiator last night, and Peter had struggled hard enough to create thick lines of bruising around his wrists.

“Look at them,” Nathan says.

Peter brings his hands up in front of his face. The bruises are a reddish purple now, but they’ll get darker before they heal. Might take a while. Some people see bruises as a personal challenge to outdo whoever had put them there.

“Now close your eyes,” Nathan says.

Peter’s eyes drift shut. His hardening cock is a warm weight at the core of his body, anchoring him to the bed.

“Picture what he did to you.”

Peter squeezes his eyes closed. He remembers the med student’s hands gripping his hips as he stood behind Peter. _”Scream for me,”_ he’d said as he broke Peter open on his cock. He had screamed, and cried, and tried to pull his wrists out of the tight loops of rope, and through it all he’d felt pathetically grateful for the man’s carelessness. Peter doesn’t want kindness. Doesn’t deserve it.

“Are you hard?”

“Yes,” Peter says. He doesn’t think that’s quite fair; he’s been hard since he heard Nathan’s voice.

“Touch your cock. Through your clothes. You are wearing clothes.”

“Pants.”

“But no underwear, right?”

“No.”

“No. Because you like to allow easy access,” Nathan said, with just a shade of contempt coloring his words. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“You know, Pete. Since I left, how many?”

Hot shame claws its way up Peter’s chest and spreads a blush across his face. “Nathan…”

“Alright, how many this month?”

Peter’s mind races to find a truth he can tell. The month is half gone already; he can’t remember it all. “Ten?” he ventures.

“You’re not sure.”

“No.”

“I see.” Nathan’s voice sounds tired, heavy. “This is what you’re doing with yourself now.”

“You _left_!” The words escape without Peter’s permission.

“You know why.”

“You left _me_.”

“Why are you doing this, Pete?”

“I need something.” He squeezes his eyes closed and pushes his palm against his cock. “You know what I need.”

“No,” Nathan says sharply. “That is not up for debate.”

“Then leave me alone!” Peter opens his eyes and sits up. He half expects to see Nathan standing at the end of the bed. He’s not there. He might never be there again. Peter looks at the phone. “If you won’t help me, leave me alone.”

Silence stretches so long that Peter thinks maybe Nathan has gone, or, worse, that his hung-over, grieving brain has imagined the whole thing. “Nathan?” he asks, his voice small.

“If I help you, you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Can I hear you say it?” Peter asks.

“Fine. You stop letting people use you. Nobody should hurt you—mark you—like that.” The “except me” remains unspoken. “If you need… If you need this thing you need, don’t go to a stranger. I’ll help you.”

“How?”

“Do you promise?”

“How are you going to help me?”

“Promise me, and you’ll see.”

Peter reaches out to touch the table next to the phone. Nathan seems farther away now than he had when he’d been ignoring Peter. But he has to try. “I promise.”

“Good. Good boy, Peter. Lie back down.”

Peter lowers himself onto the bed and closes his eyes again.

“Unzip your pants. Now, lick the palm of your right hand. Slide your hand into your pants and wrap it around your dick. Don’t move yet, just give it a little squeeze.”

Peter exhales shakily.

“Left hand down your pants. Squeeze your balls.”

Peter’s tight jeans pinch at his sac as he tries to comply. “Hard to fit,” he mutters.

“You wouldn’t have that problem if you didn’t wear clothes deliberately designed to make you look like a slut. Do it.”

A tremble of delicious shame zings down Peter’s spine, and his cock grows harder in his hand.

“Pull your cock out. Give it some air. Rub your thumb over the slit. Just once, no cheating. Are you wet?”

“Yes,” Peter groans.

“Good. Now supplies. Listen carefully. Go just as you are, cock hanging out. You need a towel, a necktie, a bottle of lube, and the butt plug. You know the one. From New Year’s.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now repeat.”

When Nathan is satisfied that Peter remembers, he says, “Bring everything back and set it on the table next to the phone. Go now.”

Peter drifts through his apartment in a daze. Though grey light filters in from the outside, he has no idea of the time, or of what is happening outside. He may as well be in a parallel world, for all it matters; he needs only to concern himself with following instructions. After he’s pulled the last item—a hefty silicone butt plug—from a box in the closet, he’s hit by a bolt of panic. He scoops up the supplies and runs back to the bed, ignoring the teeth of his zipper biting into his rock hard cock. “Nathan?”

“I’m here.”

“Good,” Peter sighs. He lines up the items as he’s been told.

“Pants off. Back on the bed, on your knees. Pick up the necktie. Describe it to me.”

“It’s grey, with a sort of maroon stripe pattern. I wore it to that party at Mom and Dad’s last spring, that benefit for their friend’s research?”

“Hm.”

“You tied my hands with it and fucked me in the bathroom upstairs.”

“I remember. Tie it around your eyes. Tight.”

Peter holds the tie over his face and ties it in a firm knot at the back of his head.

“Now pick up the lube. Get some on your fingers, left hand. Not too much. Reach behind you and touch your hole. Not inside yet, just tease it a little. Rub it.”

“Nathan…” Peter’s cock jerks.

“Sh. You’re doing fine.” There is some rustling on the line that sounds like clothes being shed. “Now, use just the tip of your index finger to push inside. Work it in and out a few times. Get yourself warmed up. Good. Your whole finger now. Deep as you can go. Hold it there. Clench your muscles. Feel it pull you in.”

Peter’s cock hangs heavy between his legs, and though he aches to touch it, he’ll wait. He’ll be good.

“Take your finger out all the way. Now two fingers. Hold your hand still and move your hips. Fuck yourself on them.”

Peter grunts. That med student had gone pretty hard on him last night, and his ass is still tender. But he doesn’t tell Nathan. He doesn’t object.

“Three fingers,” Nathan says. It might have been Peter’s imagination, but he thinks his brother’s voice sounds a bit rough. “You feeling that yet? With all the use you’ve been getting, I don’t think fingers are enough to satisfy you.” Nathan lets loose a breathy sound that might have been a moan. “Maybe I should have you use your first. You’ve got beautiful hands, Peter. We could work you open slow, until you’re in all the way to your wrist. What do you think?”

“Nnnngh,” Peter groans into the pillow. He shoves his fingers in harder, faster.

“Stop,” Nathan snaps.

Peter freezes.

“Take your fingers out. Pick up the plug. Get it lubed up. Get it nice and slick. I remember how difficult it was to get this inside you the first time. You were breathing like you’d never get enough air.”

“I remember,” Peter whispers.

“Finished? Lay the towel down on the bed. Set the plug on it, base down. Kneel over it. Are you kneeling?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now imagine I’m standing there next to your bed. Imagine I’m right there watching you. You’re going to give me a show. Hold the base of the plug with your left hand. Take your cock in your right hand. You’re not allowed to come until the plug’s all the way in. Understand?”

“Yes, Nathan.” Peter grips the plug with his left hand and positions its intimidating bulk under his hole. He wraps his other hand hard around the base of his cock so he won’t come all over himself at the first touch.

“Relax. I want you to push down slowly. Keep breathing.”

Peter throws his head back, and gulps in air as the plug starts to open him up.

“Move your hand on your cock. Remember how it feels when I do it. Firm. Twist your wrist at the top, to give a little extra friction against the head. Keep it going.”

An urgent pleasure begins to build in Peter’s balls. “Nathan, I’m gonna—I can’t—“

“Yes you can, Pete. Don’t come until it’s time. Keep relaxed. Push yourself down. Bounce on it a bit. You want to show me how eager you are, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Peter moans.

“Yes you do. Keep your hand moving on your cock. Push down hard. You have to keep moving. I know it might hurt for a moment, but you have to move through it. I’m here.”

Peter sinks further onto the plug, and he can feel the widest part stretching him. The sharp pain is almost beyond endurance, but the pleasure is worse, spiraling up too fast, too high. With a desperate grunt, he shoves himself down, and the plug slides in all the way with a firm thump, his hole clenching around the narrow part of the base. “Nathan!” he shouts.

“That’s it, Peter. Now. Let it go. Show it to me.”

Peter tugs frantically at his cock as his orgasm crashes through him. His come shoots out over his fingers, spurt after spurt of it, and he can’t seem to get enough breath in his lungs. His cock gives one last final twitch, and his muscles clench around the plug lodged inside him. He pitches forward, pressing his forehead into the covers.

“Good,” Nathan says. His voice is rough and low. Peter recognizes it: his post-orgasm rumble. “You were so good, Peter. Wipe up with the towel and listen.”

Peter rolls over onto his side and pulls the towel off the bed to start cleaning himself up.

“You can sleep now. When you wake up, I want you to take a shower. You can take the butt plug out and wash it, then put it back in. I want it to stay in all weekend. Monday morning, take it out before you go to class. To _class,_ Peter. Understand?”

“Yes Nathan,” he says drowsily.

There’s more rustling over the line. “I have to go,” Nathan says. “Remember what I said.”

“Nathan.” Peter reaches out and grabs the phone, pulls it to his chest. “I promise.”

“I love you, Peter.”

Peter drifts off to sleep to the sound of the dial tone. He dreams of flying.


End file.
